“You’ve got to get right with God!” The preacher shouted while my family sat on the folding chairs at the front of the congregation. At eight years old, I was my Daddy’s little man that Sunday night. I even tried to sit like my Daddy, my arms folded over my chest.
I remember whenever Momma and Daddy would fight he would always tell Momma, “You’ve got to get right with God.” Seemed like they were always fighting ’bout somethin’.
I married Brenda after high school. I was doin’ construction work. When my little girl, Josie, was born she had the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen. Then when that red-neck, Billy Joe Walker, knocked her up and she left home, I told her, “You’ve got to get right with God.” Brenda divorced me right after that. Never heard from either one of ‘em again.
Now all I do is sit around all day in this damn diaper watchin’ television. Last week a woman come by with some papers for me to sign. If I remember right, she had real pretty blue eyes.
I just wish they’d all leave me alone so I can get right with God.